


Sparks

by youngmoneymilla



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Enhanced! Reader, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Smut, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngmoneymilla/pseuds/youngmoneymilla
Summary: Raised by Hydra, you fall for the only one who can understand.





	Sparks

The first time you see the soldier, you’re seventeen.

Your father brings you to an observation room to show you his most “coveted asset”. You go because your father asks and you always do what your father asks. 

In truth, you don’t even know if he’s your father. Your memories are fluttering pieces of images that have yet to form one, real narrative.

You’ve only ever known the labs and cells and glass-plated rooms of the Hydra compound and the people in it. Although, you’ve yet to meet the soldier.

“Isn’t he marvelous?” your father asks you. “He’s just come back from another successful mission. Four perfect kills.”

Your father’s gleeful tone rolls over you, filling you with unease. You’ve never heard him sound so excited. Well, other than then times he’s made another breakthrough with your powers.

You watch the soldier behind the glass. He’s tall and dark – strapped in leather and buckles. He’s silently still as the lab techs rush around him in a flurry – checking his vitals. He reminds you of a wolf, sleek and poised. 

But, then you look at his face and your heart shudders because he has the face of a prince. A dark prince. Your stomach flips.

“Can I meet him?” you ask your father curiously. You press your hand to the glass and watch it fog beneath your palm.

He chuckles. “Soon enough, little one. I have plans for the two of you. But, not quite yet.”

You flick your wrist and smile as a ball of light appears in your hand. You play with the electricity, sliding it between your nimble fingers. Pulling and stretching until it ignites your forearms and tickles the skin of your throat.

You can feel your father’s grin burning into your profile.

“Yes, soon enough,” he tells you.

* * *

 

That night you think of nothing but, the soldier. You think of the curve of his pink lips, the furrow of his brow, and the soft ochre of his hair.

The sheets wind around your legs in python grips. You toss and turn with the electricity jetting through your skin as it desperately attempts to find a way out. You’re unmoored and sweat-drenched and, out of instinct, your hand slips beneath your sheets and between your legs and –  _oh sparks._

_There. Right there._

You notice the scorch marks on your bed the next day. They’re coal black and ugly and you decide to burn the bed entirely so, you can keep those scorched secrets to yourself. Your father and the nurses simply think you’re acting out again so, they put you in the glass box for a week.

Your only solace is that now you can only dream of the soldier and glass doesn’t scorch.

* * *

 

Months later, you’re bounding down the halls of the compound attempting to avoid your nurse. You’ve been unbelievably well-behaved and it’s almost sad at how easy it is to appease your father.

A flutter of lashes, a pouty lip and the tiny slip of a tear and he forgives you.  _Child’s play_.

You’re running so, fast that you don’t notice the hulking figure striding down the hall until it’s too late. You get a face full of leather and a strong, bruising grip on your arms as the figure keeps you from falling backward.

“Shit, I’m sorr-“ you start before realizing it’s the soldier who’s staring down at you with an unreadable expression. Your mouth goes slack and your stomach drops to the floor.

His head tilts to the side, his eyes studying your face. His hands, both metal and flesh, are wrapped around your biceps and electricity, uncontrollable and hot, begins to slide through your veins.

The sparks unravel from your skin and jolt his fingers. He jumps ever so slightly and lets go of you. He looks down at his hands and then back up at you before a smirk flashes across his beautiful face. It’s the most personality you’ve seen come out of him.

His eyes are still burning and sliding along your face as though he was leaving fingerprints with his gaze. The silence is nearly unbearable and you feel yourself about to speak before he nods politely at you and continues down the hall.

 _My dark prince,_ you think giddily to yourself before skipping back to your room.

* * *

 

You see the soldier sparingly after that. He is almost always away – the specter assassin doing what he does best. To your annoyance, your crush on him has developed and evolved until it is some hopeless thing that leaves you aching.

The first time he actually speaks to you is when he catches you playing alone outside. The blush pink of dawn has settled itself over the grounds. The trees are coated in a thick layer of snow, the last gasps of winter clinging to life. You’re electrocuting pieces of ice, watching it melt into slush. Your fingers crackle with energy as you shoot spurts of light from their tips.

“Does it hurt?” A voice – rough and thick – asks behind you and you stumble forward. You accidentally shoot a tree branch and it breaks off with a splitting creak and thuds loudly against the snowy floor.

You whip around and the soldier is staring at you, his face slightly apologetic. You glare at him before turning back around to steady your own breathing.

“Does what hurt?” you ask over your shoulder.

“When you use your powers?” He comes to stand next to you. The leather of his uniform brushes against your bare shoulder. The electricity coursing through your blood works the same as a heavy jacket.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you say softly. “Kind of tickles.”

“Can I feel it?” he asks, innocent curiosity at the edge of his voice. You glance at him, slightly stunned. He’s the Hand of Hydra, their most deadly weapon, and he sounds like a school boy asking the teacher if he can look closer.

He reaches his hand out and you take it. It’s warm against your skin. Ever so lightly, you press a fingertip at the center of his palm and release a spark.

His hands fidgets but, he doesn’t pull away.

“It tickled,” he marvels.

“Told you,” you shrug and he looks up at you, the ghost of a grin on his features.

One of the Hydra guards calls over to him and the spell breaks.

He quickly pulls his hand from yours and the mask is safely reset.

“Your father sent me to find you,” he declares before marching back inside with you wordlessly staring after him.

After that, he only speaks to you in one-word answers and you wonder if you’d offended him somehow. You take it back when he returns to you after a month long mission in Prague.

He brings you a clove-pricked orange for your eighteenth birthday. It’s fragrant and vivid in the dark halls of Hydra.

He presents it to you with a small smile – almost shy and you feel your heart flutter beneath your chest.

“Happy Birthday,” he mumbles as he slips it into your hands.

* * *

 

You stop aging by 23. You don’t know why it’s 23 but, it is. Your skin still glistens, your hair gleams and you can’t help but notice how everyone stares at you. It’s as if, they’re stunned something beautiful could be born in a place like this and remain so.

You want to correct them because it’s not only you. The soldier has remained just as beautiful as he was the first day you saw him. He’s a Grecian statue – sharp, clean lines of muscle, blade-edge jaw, golden, ruddy skin contrasted with blue-ice for eyes.

Your father has made good on his promise.  As soon as he feels confident in your powers, he sends you out on the field with the soldier by your side. 

The “New King and Queen of Hydra” he excitedly announces. 

Your first hit is in New Orleans of all places. It is not only your first mission but, your first time outside of Hydra’s walls. The city is an explosion of color and sound.

Rue Bourbon is awash in a stink of rain water, spilled alcohol and the sweet, heady scent of hothouse blooms that overflow from window boxes. Beneath it, the unmistakable aroma of the swamp. Storefronts illuminate the damp sidewalk while, blues and jazz and zydeco float out and twine together from the numerous bars that line the streets.

The city of lights reflects off Lake Pontchartrain in a flush of red, gold, blue and purple.

You’re overwhelmed and you find yourself exploring each cobbled road and lamp post. You caress the city with your electric fingers as though you could sink them into its ridges and curves. The soldier allows you to momentarily explore, slightly amused at your childlike wonder.

Beneath the heavy hand of darkness, he leads you further into the heart of the quarter. The location of your three targets is a sprawling townhouse bedecked in creeping myrtle and night-blooming jasmine. The soldier helps you over the rusty iron gate before he easily scales it himself. You skin is slick in a cold sweat and you know he feels it. This is your first mission. He can sense the rapid pounding of your heart and the dry gasp rattling from your throat.

He squeezes your hand once in a moment of brief consolation. The kind act surprises you since the soldier is in peak assassin mode. His face a blank, sinister mask.

You enter the property through a ground floor window. The soldier scans the first floor, taking note of visible exits via backdoors and windows. He points them out to you, keeping his body close to your own. The warmth of him eases your mind. The narcotic lull of his heat making your skin tingle and groan.

You don’t expect the fight to be easy but, it’s far harder than you thought. You catch two of the targets off guard and the soldier makes quick work of them. They’re dead in the span of two single bullets. You try not to cringe at the sight of blood spraying beyond their heads and coating the wall. You’ve grown up around blood your whole life so, why is now any different?

There’s a third that’s missing and before you can mention it, the soldier is falling to the ground, a bullet wound to the shoulder. His eyes find yours and they’re bright with surprise, shock at being bested. The game is in your hands now.

You land a back kick to the third target who had crept up behind you and knock his gun across the floor. He manages to get a punch in and your head snaps to the side. The taste of metal fills your mouth from biting your tongue. He charges you again before stumbling forward and landing on you fully. The solider’s metal hand is digging into his ankle as he attempts to pull him down and off of you. He hits you again across the temple and you see stars. The pain is secondary, however, to your worry for the soldier. He’s bleeding out on the floor and the thought of him dead leaves you shockingly cold.

“Let go of him,” you yell.

He stares up at you confused before realizing what you’re about to do. He let’s go and your hands grasp the struggling target above you. You light him up, shooting waves of electricity through his body. The man doesn’t have a chance to scream. Instead his body vibrates against your own as you electrocute him. The smell is unbearable: cooked meat and ozone and singed hair. As soon as his body stills, you push him off you and clamber to your hands and knees before throwing up across the oriental rug in the living room.

You feel the soldier’s hands, slick with blood, on you – holding you up. He wets his lips and slowly, ever so slowly, reaches up and brushes a fan of your hair out of your eyes.

The gesture feels uncomfortably intimate and you turn away.

* * *

 

You grow cocky after your first mission.

The soldier and you are near perfection at killing to the delight of Hydra. The two of you fight in tandem, electric fire and the sleek, silver ghost. He is patience and you’re chaos. It somehow works until it doesn’t.

On an assignment in Bruges, you’re nearly killed. You reveal yourself to the target too early and he manages to call back up. You would have been dead dog meat in a hail of bullets if it weren’t for the soldier striding into the room like a god of war and slaughtering the group.

He hauls you back to the safe house and you know you’re in for it. He corners you in the center of the room, his lips slanted in a tight grimace.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. It sounds unbearably weak.

“I’ve been trying to understand why the fuck you’ve been so reckless,” he growls, leaning forward with all of his serpentine grace. He strolls around you, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on your own so, that you’re forced to turn with him.

“I didn’t think I was being that reckless,” you shrug. “I saw an opening and I took it.” 

“No.” He pauses and he closes his eyes and grits his teeth. The barely concealed rage is simmering beneath the surface and, much to your horror; it’s drawing you to him like a moth to flame. “You were just impatient and ran in there without a second thought. You almost cost us the mission.”

You remain silent, attempting to stare at anything but him.

“Do you have a death wish?” he finally asks.

Your head shoots up at that.  _Did you have a death wish?_

You had changed. Every time after a mission, you find yourself stumbling into a shower in a half-ass attempt to rid yourself of what you did. Sometimes you look in the mirror and you can’t remember your own face, you don’t know who’s looking back at you but, it’s certainly not  _you._ Your hands are now touched by gun calluses and scars. You don’t really sleep. The killings always play out like distorted fever dreams in living, breathing Technicolor every time you close your eyes.

“No, I don’t have a death wish,” you lie poorly. You can tell even he doesn’t believe you.

He continues to walk around you, his step predatory and unsettling. He moved like smoke as if he has called the shadows of the room to him. They cradle and frame him – mantling his shifting body like a gauze veil.

It makes him unbelievably intimidating and unbelievably mysterious at the same time.

He sighs.

“Look, I need you to be careful. If you died, it’d be on my head,” he says quietly. “And maybe, that doesn’t bother you but, me? I’d rather not have that kind of guilt.”

He glances at your surprised expression and chuckles low. “I have enough of  _that_  to last me a lifetime.”

You’re nearly too shocked to reply.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” you manage to say.

He runs his leather clad thumb along your lower lip, pressing softly on the swollen cut from the earlier fight.

“I know you wouldn’t, little lightning bug.”

* * *

 

You fall in love with him. The realization comes slow, sliding into you until it swallows you completely before you have time to process it.

You’re enraptured by him and all that he offers. His scent sends you flying: dark musk, crisp tobacco, and a heated feral perfume that clings to him like a second skin.

As time passes, you notice the subtle changes to the planes of his face. You notice the longer hair, the rugged, prickly stubble that peppers his cheeks. You noticed the hardness of his eyes and the way his lips pout slightly when he smiles. He never fully grins. It never reaches his eyes and you’re desperate to fix that.

Perhaps you notice these things now because he has the look of someone who’s seen and done things that you yourself can now understand having been entrenched in those very same dark places. You both share darkness.

You decide to go to him one night in the dead of winter. The facility is cloaked in milk-froth fog. Twilight gleams through wall cracks and slight windows.

He sits up immediately when you enter. He’s clad in only a pair of black pants. The serum pumping through him leaves him achingly warm. Your eyes fall over the sharp lines of his torso. His chest vibrates with breath and you long to run your tongue along the curves and hills of his body. His eyes are shockingly brilliant blue and you think  _sparks_

 _– oh, sparks_.

You move towards him slowly. You get on your knees and run your hands up his strong, muscular thighs. His expression morphs from confusion to terror. He grips your wrists and lifts you off of him immediately.

“Don’t,” he croaks.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him softly. “This is okay.”

“This isn’t safe,” he replies desperately. You’re shocked at how quickly he’s lost that steel armor. The moment you show him any real intimacy, he gives you real terror.

“I’ll hurt you,” he protests weakly. “I can’t – I haven’t-“

You press a finger to his lips to quiet him.

“I know this is a risk for you – being this close to someone else – to me. I know you’re afraid of what you’ll do, of what you’ve already done.” You lean forward and add, a little lower, a little more slowly, “But, I’m not afraid of you. I’ve never been and that hasn’t changed since the moment I first saw you.”

A desperate, broken sound rises from a deep place in his chest. The sound nearly tears your heart and you reach for him, cradling his face between your hands. He leans into your touch and ever so lightly touches his lips to your palm. It sends the briefest tingle of electricity through your skin and when he looks up at you, his eyes have gone dark.

“Please make me feel something good here,” you beg him. “Just once, I need to feel something.”

His eyes soften - it’s close to warmth, brimming star-bright.

“Okay, lightning bug,” he relents. “Okay.”

He captures your face in his hands and crushes his lips to yours. He tastes like sweat and smoked wood. His lips and tongue are wet salt and as he kisses you, you feel as if he is possessing you fully.

The soldier hungrily runs his tongue along your bottom lip, teasing and nipping until your mouth falls open and he plunges inside. He grabs your chin with his metal hand –your skin sensitive to the coolness. He digs his fingers into you jaw forcing a keening whimper from your mouth. He kisses you again, more ferociously than before if possible, to shush you.

He drags you up from the floor and pushes you onto the bed. He divests you of your clothing in quick succession. His tongue trails down your throat, the scoop of your collarbone. He latches to a nipple causing your back to arch into him. Your chests slide together, the heat of you two growing molten.

His hands – metal and flesh – circle patterns in your inner thigh. You’re soaking and he marvels at it. You lean forward and kiss him hard again, whispering, “It’s for you. It’s all for you.”

His broad palms caress the flesh of your thigh. The dual temperatures leave you shivering. His knuckles brush your clit, teasing you.

“Please,” you moan because you need him. You need him so desperately you think you might spontaneously combust right there.

He tentatively presses a finger into you and then a second and then a third. It burns and stretches you but, the pain subsides to pleasure. His metal arm clicks and whirs as he works you to the melting point. He scissors them, pressing and rubbing against all the right spots until you’re a mess of whimpers and hitching breath.

He replaces his fingers with his mouth, his lips suctioning to your clit, causing your legs to tremble around his head. He licks a firm strip up your slit and uses one of his arms to hold your hips down as you buck beneath him. You grip his hair for purchase and in moments your climax swells and crashes over you.

He pulls himself up and traps you beneath him. His lips are wet with you and you drag him down to taste. You feel his cock sliding against your thigh, hot and heavy.

“I need  _you_ now,” you tell him. You grip his ass to force him against you. His hip bones knocking against your own own.

He pumps himself beneath you and presses the head of his cock along the slick of your folds. He rubs it up and down, catching on your throbbing clit, leaving you keening.

“Tell me that you’re my girl,” he pleads - his voice rough and tense. It sounds like he might cry

“Isn’t that obvious,” you reply back - your voice gentle as a song. You run your hands down his face, caressing his cheeks. “Of course, I’m your girl.”

He kisses you again, his tongue massages yours, pushing into your mouth just as he sinks his cock into your heat until he’s buried to the hilt. 

There is a single, shocking jolt of pain before it melts away.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his arms trembling beside your head. His voice is tight and he’s clenching his teeth, holding himself back from driving hard and fast into you.

You nod, pressing your forehead against his collarbone, the jut of his chin catches on your head. Your hands grasp the globes of his ass, feeling it clench under your sensitive fingertips.

“You feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispers to you, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. “So - so fucking good.”

He fucks you slow at first before building up the rhythm. You’re gripping his shoulders, his heavy biceps. Your legs wrap around him in a suctioning bite. He fills you completely, enveloping you until your eyes roll back and heart feels fit to burst.

He kisses every inch of your skin available to him. His lips find your nose, your cheeks, the corners of your eye. He leaves berry-red marks on the pulse point of your throat.

He’s groaning and grunting with each thrust of his hips. The wet sounds of slapping skin echo off the stone walls of his cell. He glances down between you and the sight of where you’re connected makes both of you moan. You’ve never felt this close to anyone before and the thought sets you alight.

Your nails dig into his lower back, leaving red streaks along the taught, firm lines muscle. Ever so lightly, you send a pattern of sparks against his skin. The faint emblem of pain, of your mark, sends him reeling and he spasm under your touch. The electricity forces something akin to a choked, feral groan from deep within his chest.

“I’m c-c-close,” he stutters. 

“Me too,” you manage to reply. Each thrust is driving you farther into the mattress, the breath punched out of you with each slam of his hips. 

He pulls himself up on his forearms so, he can snake a hand down between you. His fingers find your clit and you’re done for, coming hard around him and squeezing him so, tightly that he follows you with a choked groan.

Afterward, you cradle his head against your chest. You listen to his heavy breaths and the soft click of his jaw as he finally rests.

You tell him you love him in the pre-dawn light.

* * *

 

There’s finally one mission that the soldier does not return from. Rumors circulate like wild fire and you’re told he was killed in action. You know better.

His disappearance practically destroys you and it becomes apparent to all of your handlers. They keep you locked away. The organization already half-dead due to the fall of SHIELD.

You find yourself unable to care.

You spend your days juggling electric balls of energy. You burn your fingers and singe your sheets and rub the ash on your skin. It reminds you of that winter morning when the soldier first spoke to you. You miss the sensate quality of his voice, how every syllable caressed your body as if it could undress you one piece of fabric at a time.

Without the soldier, loneliness claws into your skin and holds you down. You wait for death.

Summer heat leaves you a sweating, mumbling mess on the day that the facility is infiltrated. You ignore the yells and screams and shrill screech of gunfire. You hope it’s someone who will give you the sharp reprieve of a blade.

Of course, it’s not and maybe you should have known. Maybe, you should have had more faith.

Your door blasts open and the soldier towers in the doorway. Blood is spattered across the planes of his cheekbones, the cobalt blue leather of his vest and the heavy bottom of his combat boots.

He takes one look at your appearance and rushes towards you, his expression morphing from murderous war god to wounded animal.

He cradles you against him, tentatively touching your limbs to check for fresh wounds.

You stare at him confused.

“Why did you come back for me?” you whisper.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he tells you gently. His hands hook under your chin and he presses his lips against the tears that have slipped down your cheeks. You haven’t realized that you’ve been crying. You don’t answer him.

He stares down at you, his eyes glittering in the cool darkness. The warm light from the blasted door frames him from behind.

“I came back for you because it’s  _you,_ ” he says simply. “In any version of this reality, in any world, I would come back for you. Always.”

You feel your heart clench painfully in your chest. You throw yourself against him, allowing him to crush your body to his. He presses his forehead to yours as he lifts you up. The door behind him pulsates with light, inviting you through.

He whispers to you sweet things: how essential to him you’ve become and how the world is waiting for you both.


End file.
